Courage And Fear

Courage And Fear: Simon Sinek

There was an eating area, with round cafeteria tables and chairs. Pictures of military aircraft and missiles hung on the wood-paneled walls. It was decorated much like a teenage boy might decorate his bedroom. There was a hallway past the open space with bedrooms. Those, too, looked like college dorm rooms: simple wooden furniture, a desk with a computer on top, a TV, a couple of pictures on the walls. You know, normal.

After we watched a safety video, we went back to the steel door with the slot in it. Once again, our identities were verified and the door opened. Inside the security office, it looked more like what I expected: screens with video images of the compound from all angles, radios, phones, body armor lying on the ground, and a small cabinet filled with rifles.

Don't judge a book by its cover

Some calls were made downstairs, lists were checked and double-checked, and, finally, a door was unlocked, and we were pointed through. We stepped into an old-style elevator, one with sliding gates, and traveled slowly underground. It was big — big enough to carry heavy stuff down if necessary. When we got to the bottom, deep beneath the ground, the normalcy was gone. The carpeting and wood paneling were replaced by concrete in every direction. To the left was a room with generators and all manner of back-up systems. To the right was the “capsule.” That’s where the two “missileers” sat and monitored missiles and computers on their 24-hour shift. One of the “missileers” came out, dressed in a standard issue green flight suit and asked to see our IDs again. Social security cards and licenses were again presented and checked against paperwork and permissions. Then, finally, we were invited in.

It was a slender room with two chairs facing a relatively simple-looking gray console. There were monitors with things coded that made no sense to me. One screen was covered — I wasn’t authorized to see it. There was a bookshelf that hung above the console with loose-leaf binders and other books in various colors. Each was labeled down the spine in clear letters: “secret,” “secret,” “top secret,” “secret.” And there, under plastic guards, were the keyholes. One for each “missileer” separated by a distance far greater than any one person could reach. I stared at them for more than a few seconds. This was not a simulator; this was real.

Operate under pressure

There are so many checks and rechecks. The system has so many redundancies and precautions. And any gaps or holes you could think of have been filled in the 60 years since we’ve had a nuclear deterrent. Any new ones that anyone could come up with were also dealt with. I wasn’t scared at the possibility of an accidental launch. I was scared because in our post-Cold War world, we forget that nuclear arsenals still exist. This is one of the very few jobs in the world, especially in the military, that measures success by inaction.

The “missileers” are a special breed and are psychologically evaluated for stability and the ability to operate under extreme pressure. They are smart — amazingly smart — people with a real interest in understanding all the technical details. They are the kinds of people who like to read the manual before they start playing with whatever piece of electronic equipment they just bought.

And courage. This is a job where there are no highs and lows. This is a job where there is no second chance. Perfection is the only standard. This is a job that has a steady, underlying intensity. And it has been going for 24 hours a day, all year for the past 60-plus years. We usually measure courage as heading headfirst into danger, but we rarely acknowledge the courage to maintain the status quo.